SAWLOCK
by MetaphoricallySane
Summary: 'BBC Sherlock'/'SAW' crossover. When Sherlock thinks he's on Jigsaw's trail, it turns out it's the other way around... Will Sherlock and John survive? Will they learn anything? Contains horror and some slash/fluff.


**Sawlock**

Johnlock

(BBC Sherlock/SAW)

Part 1: art/SAWLOCK-Part-1-311930212

Part 2: art/SAWLOCK-Part-2-311931268

Part 3: art/SAWLOCK-Part-3-312140419

Part 4: art/SAWLOCK-Part-4-312148502

Part 5: art/SAWLOCK-Part-5-315163352

Part 6: art/SAWLOCK-Part-6-315167654

Part 7: art/SAWLOCK-Part-7-315360555

Part 8: art/SAWLOCK-Part-8-315892944

Part 9: art/SAWLOCK-Part-9-318402692

Part 10: art/SAWLOCK-Part-10-318412900

"_Hello, Detective Holmes. I want to play a game…"_

It was one of the most boring cases he had ever been dragged in on – always the same: the Jigsaw mark, the tape, the writing on the wall. Always one voice, one "killer". Except he wasn't a killer, was he? That was what kept Sherlock coming back time and time again to see the results of the Games.

Every time there was a new set of bodies, a new catastrophe of sins. Every time John would follow behind, cursing the inhumanity of "testing" people. Sherlock would stay quiet, and study, even though he could see through it. After a few minutes he'd turn his nose up and stride out.

John ran along behind him, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him round with the force of the soldier he'd never lost. "Sherlock," he hissed, "they need you in there! This is the fourth-"

"Fifth."

"-crime scene like this we've been to, and you haven't helped at all."

"Firstly, they're not _like _this – they're all the same, just look past the different activities and trials and it's the same message, the same reasoning, and often the same outcome. Secondly, I have helped, Lestrade and his men need me to tell them where to look and what to do, so without me they would probably still be back at Scotland Yard eating donuts and drinking coffee."

"But you haven't found the killer!" John yelled, exasperated.

Sherlock looked dead into the doctor's eyes, his own icy blues almost tearful as he uttered, "I know."

It kept him awake at night. _No one _was this clever, not Moriarty or any of his minions, not Mycroft or his lackeys… No one Sherlock had ever come across. There were no clues, just patterns. No incriminating evidence, just false leads. Every scene, every trap, was flawless. And although he'd never admit it, Sherlock had the highest respect for this 'Jigsaw'.

"Where are you…" he whispered to himself, glancing across the rooftops from the window of 221B. Rain splattered across the window, as if in way of insulting him, but he took no notice; he saw beyond the weather and the street lights now. He saw the dark corridors and warehouses of the Games.

"You'll get him," Watson reassured him, stepping over with a cup of tea for his friend. Sherlock shot him a hopeless glance, then watched the steam rising from the tea before turning back to the view. John rolled his eyes and settled the mug down on the table. "Sherlock, maybe you should get some rest. This case has been going on for months – it's not going to be over in one night."

"But it could be," Sherlock murmured, his lips hardly moving. "If only he'd make a mistake…"

"Jigsaw doesn't make mistakes," John huffed, sitting down in his armchair and hitting the remote until the TV hissed to life, but it was only white noise and bars of white and black. In recognition Sherlock turned slowly, half expecting to see that damn doll on the screen, but John just cursed, saying something about the satellite, and turned it off again. When he noticed Sherlock's vague interest, he scoffed. "Come on, Holmes. Take a break."

Sherlock chuckled softly, and then collapsed into his chair opposite John, tea in hand. John marvelled at how he didn't spill it, but then again – he's Sherlock. John smiled a little, and they sat there drinking their tea in the peace and quiet.

Until Sherlock heard the police siren. This time his tea spilt over the floor as he pushed it towards John before hurrying to the window again like a dog keen to go on his walk, and John practically hissed at him to calm down.

He wouldn't for the rest of the night.

As John dragged himself up the stairs to his room, he glanced back at the shadow of the man he would always call his best friend. He worried about him. He had seen the traps built for the "obsessives" and "those who could not let go", and he knew he wouldn't sleep tonight either, knowing that Jigsaw was still out there, and Sherlock was quickly becoming a prime test subject.

"_You have been baffled by the fact that someone is smarter than you. You couldn't let go of your little "war" against me. Now you will have to let go of something much more important…"_

If it wasn't for John he wouldn't eat, and Sherlock was silently grateful to have him around. He'd never express it, but John knew anyway. That was why the following morning when the grouchy detective only grumbled at John bringing him a slice of toast, the doctor didn't take offence. He knew Sherlock by now.

Later that day the sun came out and the desperate detective was practically scratching at the door until John agreed to go to the crime scene. In the taxi Sherlock spent the whole time mumbling to himself about Games and traps and Jigsaw and the survivors. He had the most interest in the survivors: the ones who "won". Amanda Young. Lawrence Gordon. Daniel Matthews. So many times John had been left behind to stop Sherlock's test subjects from crying as they recalled what John could only describe as "their very own horror stories".

Sherlock would twist every detail out of them, and that was why John had taken the house keys off of him. Sherlock couldn't leave without him.

Or at least until he found his lock picks.

"Any hints for us yet, oh Mighty Freak?" Donavon growled as they strode up towards the door to yet another abandoned workshop, now strung up with crime scene tape like a macabre birthday party. John was already cringing against the stench of rotting flesh, acid against the back of his throat, but he'd smelt it enough times not to gag.

As usual they ignored her and proceeded inside.

Lestrade was bagging up evidence with disdain, knowing it would get them no further, when he almost cried with relief at seeing Sherlock walk in. He glanced around, as if unimpressed. 3 bodies – one without eyes, one without ears, and the last without a mouth by any definition – lay dead on the floor. All around them were rats, seeming not to care as the police trampled over them; they tore at the skin and scurried around. Sherlock made a mental note, and another, and another – but nothing he could consider substantial.

"Thank God you're here," Lestrade started, sounding panicked. Sherlock wasn't the only one to notice the stench of cigarettes and coffee and sweat seeping from him. "We've got this scene and another across town. That bastard's getting more and more efficient, and we've got fucking nothing! The whole town- fuck it, the whole _country _is going ape-shit, and we've got the Prime Minister on our back – which in itself is unfathomable – and no leads what-so-fucking-ever. We're losing detectives faster than we can train them, so I really don't need any of your cryptic bullshit right now – just tell us what the fuck we should be doing?"

Sherlock shook his head a little as Lestrade's pitiful language, and even John was a little shocked to hear him swear so much. But then again, the situation did call for it.

"Where's the tape?" Sherlock asked calmly, indicating for John to inspect the bodies, as he did obediently.

"Here," Anderson grumbled, holding up the evidence bag. "We found two of them, and since there are three victims we're looking-"

"For the third, obviously," Sherlock sighed.

"Yeah, well, try not to contaminate the scene," Anderson hissed. "As if it hasn't already got _your _fingerprints all over it…"

"Anderson!" Lestrade warned. "Get back to fucking work – this is the man that could save all our arses!"

"Or stab us in the back," Anderson warned, keeping quiet, but knowing Sherlock was hearing every word. "Or should I say in the neck with drugs and then drag us to one of these shitholes…"

"Well, you've got one thing right," John cut in, standing up. "All of them have piercings in their neck from injection sites. All perfectly administered."

"So we're dealing with a pro, what else can you tell us that we already know?" Lestrade grunted.

John calmed his nerve as he added, "These people didn't need to die. Look around. They were given a chance, just like all the other scenes. This man… he's not a murderer. We've seen that from Amanda, Doctor Gordon, Daniel… Who sets up traps that aren't to kill?"

Sherlock thought of John's exact words for a moment. "A fisherman."

"He's sure reeling us in…" John commented. "Maybe we shouldn't be – excuse the metaphors – taking the bait. Lestrade, look at these men. They all work for you."

Lestrade cast a glance over the bodies, then shut his eyes.

"These were your best investigators. Maybe if we just let Jigsaw do what he wants-"

"DO WHAT HE WANTS?"

It was the only time Sherlock and Anderson had been able to agree on anything.

"_You would do anything to protect your "friends", and yet you never show them the slightest appreciation… Tonight, I will change that."_

Back at the apartment, Sherlock was as silent and brooding as ever. John was starting to wonder why he tried: every time he offered food or drink or company, his friend would just grumble something about Games. He was getting obsessed with the Jigsaw killer – to such an extent even John was beginning to think he was involved. Why else wouldn't he be able to solve this?

"I need to speak to Amanda," Sherlock decided at last, but when he turned in search of John's disapproval he found himself to be alone. Next to him on the table was a sandwich and a cold cup of coffee, and even a cigarette and lighter. With a few blinks he realised he hadn't even noticed when they'd been put there.

With a quick puff and a sip and a nibble, he grabbed his coat and threw open the door, feeling his pocket for his picks, and then set out.

His breath drifted behind him under the orange haze of the streetlights. It was supposed to be summer, but then again it was England, so he pulled his leather gloves on and bundled his coat closer, cursing the climate. He listened to his footsteps across the pavement and knew he was alone. That, at least, was a comfort, for now.

If he could speak with Amanda one more time, maybe, just maybe, he could break her. There was something not right about her. She was too ready to talk about this; while Lawrence Gordon and Daniel Matthews practically screamed to remember, Amanda seemed only too happy to oblige. And that was her flaw.

Sherlock was convinced there was something wrong with that. Why was she so miraculously "healed" while the others trembled in fear? Why was she a survivor, while they had merely lived to tell the tales of their traps?

He ran over her details in his head, mapping them out across his mind, joining them with red thread.

Amanda Young, ex-drug addict. 33 years old. Self-harmer, possible psychosis, and a disturbing respect for her "saviour" – Jigsaw; to Sherlock, that spelt suspicious in capital letters.

Just then he wasn't alone. For a moment his heart lurched with adrenaline, but he knew better than to stop walking. That would make him an easy target. But if he ran, that would make him suspicious – after all, it could just be a homeless person, staggering around, drunk, not caring about a tall man out for a stroll in the middle of the night.

His gait was controlled, but stumbling – fakely. This person was following him, that was sure, but he didn't want to be caught. Instantly Sherlock was on red alert, but he kept his pace measured. If he had picked up a stalker, that was no surprise. He'd been in the news a lot and-

And he'd been working the Jigsaw case a lot. That was what John had been trying to tell him. He suppressed a gulp, but kept walking without a single sign of worry.

His follower smiled a little. He had been in the mood for a challenge; not the pathetic surrender he was used to. It was time for a bit of a fight – and Sherlock Holmes was sure to be up for that. _"Just be careful,"_ he recalled being told, which of course he'd ignored. A Game was a Game; and this was his turn.

Hugging his arms closer as if against the wind, he quickened his pace a little, as if trying to warm himself up, despite the fact he was sweating. As the follower picked up his pace Sherlock grimaced, looking around for a place to disappear into. The stalker's limp had miraculously recovered; he knew he had been spotted, and there was a mutual tension between the hunter and the prey. But Sherlock wasn't going down that easy.

He feinted and bolted into an alley, counting on his knowledge of the city to guide him up a ladder and across the rooftops, his heels skidding against pebbles as he heard his follower's shoes clanking on the rungs of the ladder just behind him. With a leap he was onto the next rooftop, turning back but all he saw was a hood, and then he was off again, his attacker close behind and gaining on him. Whoever it was, they were fit and used to chases. Whoever it was, they were bloody determined to catch him as they leapt across, diving and tackling his legs and dragging him down.

Sherlock kicked out viciously, angrily, furious at being caught and not willing to give up as he clawed across the rooftop, glaring back to see his own gloves scratching up his legs and he growled a little, pulling his heels up and the hope of seeing his attacker, but all he saw was a mask.

Black, scraggly hair, wrinkles, indents, snout, rubber – pig mask.

"Shit," Sherlock hissed, just as he saw his attacker seize a syringe and drag him closer, closer. He squirmed but the pig-man was stronger, better built, bigger, and he grabbed his shoulder and tugged away his scarf and drove in the injection and-

Plunged. Flooded. Seeped. Sherlock groaned, gritted his teeth, lumped back, shut his eyes, and the last thing he saw was his attacker reaching up to take off his mask.

"_Will you understand what is right, and what is wrong? Will you realise what it means to be sentimental?"_

John was not an idiot, despite what Sherlock would say. He had heard the door open. He had heard it shut. He had waited for it to open again.

2 hours later, with no phone calls from Sherlock or Lestrade, John was beginning to get dubious. He grabbed his phone and texted his friend.

Half an hour after that, John slammed the door behind him. Sherlock always replied – _always_. Something was wrong, something was very, very wrong. It was the middle of the night, but he didn't care. He ran through the streets calling out his name, clutching his gun, eyes darting for any signs of Sherlock and/or danger. He cursed ever letting the man out of his sight.

At Scotland Yard there was silence. He crept inside, gun raised, and then realised what he was doing and greeted the doorman, asking him like Sherlock was a run-away toddler if he'd been spotted anywhere. No luck, and John was panicking even more so.

He must have searched the whole city, or at least his legs complained as much, until he collapsed on a bench, head in hands, swearing and worrying and gritting his teeth against anger and regret. He grabbed his phone and pummelled the keys until he pressed send.

"_WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?"_

"_Dr Watson, it's 1am, I have no idea what my brother is up to and quite frankly I don't care. – MH"_

"_Bullshit, you've done something, and I'm going to fucking find out what."_

And he threw his phone as far as he could across the green, watching it skitter along to a tree and vanish into the fog. He was silent, debating whether he should fetch it or not, when someone came slumping along towards it, bent down, scooped it up. John squinted to see who it was, but just say some kind of hoodie. He grumbled.

"Hey, that's mine!" he yelled, standing and pacing over.

But when the "teen" turned around they jumped at him and drove a needle into his neck. His vision blurred for a few seconds, just enough time to see the pig that had attacked him, but before he could make out the words "what the fuck is going on" everything faded into black.

The next thing he knew was how cold he was. Then, how scared he was. Through everything – Afghanistan, the first case with Sherlock, almost seeing his friend killed – he had never been so scared in his life. There was a lingering scent of fire and metal and sand, and he cringed against it, resolving not to open his eyes yet.

He tasted fabric and blood stains, felt links around his wrists, but not chains. They had give in them, like he was attached to some sort of chord, like a trip-wire. He knew better than to struggle. After all, he didn't know what it would do. Staggering up, still not looking, he felt something scraping against his skin, slicing through his jeans and slitting his flesh like glass. He lifted his bare foot and recognised that agonising feeling of blood spilling over shards, driven into the bridge of his foot. He hissed against his gag, and he couldn't stand not seeing any more.

As he opened his eyes they watered only they felt more like they were bleeding. He squinted through the pain until he could see the writing through the gloom. It was at the end of a long corridor, the floorboards splitting and splintered.

"Don't move," he whispered to himself, trying to understand what this was, trying to calm down. On a table just beyond his reach – for he knew now that the cables would snap if he moved just a metre – was a tape player.

"PLAY ME."

He gulped, and shut his eyes, begging for this to be a nightmare. He tried to stretch one arm, but the cable tightened and stretched before he could grab it. Once again he strained his eyes for the end of the room, but he couldn't read it.

And so, with a deep breath, he broke free with a snap and seized the tape. A clock began to tick, but it was far, far away from him.

In another room, another gamer was waking.

"_In the next room you will begin to understand why victims are so hurt. If you succeed, you will save his life. If you fail, you both will die. Live or die, Sherlock Holmes. Make your choice."_

He cursed and flung the tape across the room, clawing at his collar until his fingers began to bleed, his neck scratched but the collar unscathed. He had never panicked like this. There was something about the situation, the danger, that was beyond him, beyond reason, and no matter how much he tried to think he found his mind trapped in fear. And he did not know what to do.

"John!" he cried out, not daring to take another step, even if his legs would have let him. "JOHN! What have I done, what have I done…"

Trembling, he reached for the door handle. Metal. Possibly electrified. He drew back, glaring at it, as if he could open it with his mind and find his partner stood the other side, safe and secure. But he wasn't. He would reply if he was alright.

The detective took in his surroundings, trying to breathe steadily, and finding himself smiling. For the first time he began to understand how sickened his mind was – how he respected this trap, despite the fact it could kill him, and his only friend.

"Okay, Sherlock, think," he told himself, and began to really look around. "Door, possibly electrified, let's leave that aside. Collar, definitely unstable and I wouldn't trust myself to take it off, but there's a slot for a key. So there has to be a key. There's a timer, counting down, but there are no numbers anywhere, no bombs or any kind of explosives in sight… So I can presume that the timer is somehow linked to this collar. And I don't want it on when that timer runs out."

He shut his eyes, put his hands together, leaned forward and studied the door. No obvious wires or triggers, but the electricity could be linked in on the other side. He moved his finger towards it, slowly, slowly, checking for sparks or any kind of interference, but there was nothing and so he grabbed it and turned it and it clicked open just as the lights blared on.

The wall lit up letters in red.

"DEDUCE ME."

And an arrow pointing down to a letter.

Creeping forward, Sherlock eyed everything with suspicion. There were doors just about everywhere – 6 in total, plus the one he'd entered through – and each with a symbol: gun, rope, shovel, bomb, poison, knife. The detective's eyes scattered over each, but they were all similar apart from shape: same paint, same style, same height on the doors… Nothing obvious, just the way Sherlock liked it.

But not when he could hear John yelling from somewhere far beyond his reach.

Drawing a breath, he stepped forward and read the letter. Only it wasn't a letter at all – it was a photograph of a skull. _His _skull, on the mantelpiece of 221B. He narrowed his eyes and picked up the paper, flipping it over to read, "HOW MUCH DO YOU REMEMBER?"

"Everything," Sherlock whispered with a smirk, looking around at the symbols again. "He was killed by a shovel, when his attackers couldn't find anything better. Ironic, to die in a graveyard… Is that what you want?"

He moved towards the door marked shovel, and put his hand flat to it, not taking any chances. He pushed a little, keeping an eye on the handle, and watched it turn itself. He smiled grimly. It was wired to a gun.

He had picked the wrong door.

"But what other solution is there?" he raged, and then he looked up to see the timer, ticking his life away.

3 minutes, 48 seconds.

47 seconds.

46.

He didn't notice it but he was beginning to tremble.

"_This is not your fight, Doctor Watson. Your partner and "saviour" Sherlock Holmes holds the key to this room, as you hold the key to his survival. Convenient, that you had a scar already. It meant I didn't need to give you a new one. By reaching this tape you have started the game. How much do you truly believe in Sherlock Holmes?"_

"Oh shit," he whispered to himself. "Oh shit, oh shit, SHERLOCK! What the hell have you gotten us into!"

He jogged over to the door, watching his step over loose floorboards and mighty splinters, but he stopped dead when he read the words on the door. He refused to interpret their meaning, and closed his eyes. And then he looked up, and down, and beyond the floor until he saw the bombs. He could hear the timer now, the soft beeping that seemed to drown into the distance beyond the waves of realisation of what they meant.

He turned back to the door in a blind panic.

"READY OR NOT, HERE I COME."

And then he saw the wires leading down, down from the door, below the floor, and to the bombs. If the door opened, the bombs would detonate. If the timer ran out, he was equally screwed.

"Believe in Sherlock Holmes," John echoed, and rubbed his hands over his face as the stress built up beyond anything he'd ever experienced. And then he paced back, grabbed the tape, rewound, hit play.

"_As you hold the key to his survival."_

He reached up to touch his bullet wound on his shoulder and cringed instantly; it was swollen and bloody and as he pressed harder, practically groaning from the spasms of pain through his weak body, he felt it there. Not bone, not muscle – metal. He remembered the tape had talked about his wound.

"The key," he whispered to himself, and looked at the table again, but it was empty. He searched the room frantically for a scalpel, but there was nothing. He ripped the sleeve off of his shirt to inspect the scar, and saw the key almost within reach, just beyond the stitches. And then he understood.

When stitches are done wrong in a hospital, they are cut away and re-done.

When they're done wrong on the battlefield, they are ripped away by barbed wire.

Only John didn't have barbed wire.

Clenching his teeth and eyes so hard he felt tears sting, he hooked his finger under the first stitch, and pulled until he screamed.

And then tugged some more, until with a snap the skin broke free and the bloody thread hung down. He moved to the next, expecting it to unstitch easily now, but realising all too soon that the threads were individual.

He would have to rip it again, and again and again.

_I need this key, _he told himself, and grasped the next line. _Sherlock needs this key. _

And he pulled and tugged and ripped and swore until his hands were sticky with blood and droplets splashed to the floor, but he had it. Scraping away, he hooked the key out, and then slumped to the wall with a smile, wondering where the hell to use it.

"_Tick tock, Mr Holmes…"_

He rubbed his temples until it hurt, trying to make sense of this. It wasn't about finding the right door now so much as it was about _being _right. If the code didn't refer to the man's death, what did it refer to?

"Gun, rope, shovel, bomb, poison, knife…" he hissed to himself, over and over, trying to find a hint, something, anything. "Alphabetically: bomb, gun, knife, poison, shovel, rope… Word length: poison, shovel – 6, knife – 5, bomb, rope- 4, gun – 3… The gun is the only one that requires anything else – a bullet – but that doesn't mean ANYTHING…"

He punched at the wall, tore up the letter, yelled, screamed, tugged at his collar, but nothing would stop the timer ticking. 3 minutes 10 seconds. At least he was a fast thinker, but was there another room beyond this, before he got to John?

"Okay, Sherlock, think!" he ordered himself. "The man, he was wanted all over, and of course I was the one to turn him in to his "enemies". Oh, he had lots of them… Lots, what do you get a lot of – rope."

He turned, pressed his hand to the door, began to press, but his panicked state left his hearing impeccable and he could already heard the mechanisms turning, the trigger pulling back.

"Shit!" he cursed, slamming it and then leaping back as the shot rang out. That left him silent, and a lump stuck in his throat when he realised just how serious this was. John was out there. What if John was in the same state, with a loaded gun behind every door? "Gun!" he whispered suddenly, and moved to the door, but as it hitched he felt tears come to his eyes.

2 minutes 49 seconds, and still whatever lay beyond the door.

"Okay, okay, I can do this, I can get to John…" he told himself, despite doubting himself beyond logical sense. "There has to be a right answer. Bomb, poison, knife…"

And then he stopped, looked up. "His name. Roger Ivy. Ivy is poisonous." But he frowned, shook his head. "Why use his name, name's are so… unimportant in the grand scheme, so sentimental to most people but-"

"_Will you realise what it means to be sentimental?"_

"Fuck," Sherlock growled, and turned the handle and broke free into the next room without a shot fired. But what hit him was worse than a bullet.

"Sh-Sherlock!" she cried.

He cringed at the voice, and stepped into the darkness, trying to find a light switch but the wall was sticky and damp. He took a breath and smelt blood.

"Sherlock, what's going on? Please… help!"

He flicked the switch and the lights jolted alive, and he looked to the words before daring to face her.

"TIED UP IN ALL YOU DO."

Mrs Hudson begged him again, and as he turned he saw the razor wire wrapped around her, and he started to cry.

He stepped towards her. "Did you see him? Did you see who put you here?" he asked calmly, trying to distance himself from all of this.

She shook her head and Sherlock watched in horror as the twisted spines scratched across her neck and pearls of blood adorned her like a crimson necklace. Her make-up ran down her cheeks.

"I need you to stay still, okay?"

"Okay, Sherlock," she whispered, sniffing back tears. "What's going on?"

"Mrs Hudson, now is not the time to explain."

He studied everything he could about her – strapped standing up, the wire all over her, and her legs, arms, face and throat fully open to wounding. The ragged clothes she wore had once been elegant and graceful… Sherlock scowled, and followed the wires to their mechanisms – they would wind up, tighten, and carve her up with one mistake.

"What do you want me to do?" Sherlock asked, his voice trembling, looking up. "Please… let me help her!"

And then he read the words behind her.

"LEAVE ME TO MY WORK, AND I'LL LEAVE YOU TO YOURS."

The detective stepped back, and his landlady tried to reach out to him but her arms bled and she screamed.

"This isn't… this isn't my test," he muttered, hurt. "It's yours."

And on the table he saw the tape. He grabbed it and pressed play.

"_Hello, Mrs Hudson. You could have saved your husband, pleaded him innocent, but instead you turned to the infamous Sherlock Holmes to make sure Mr Hudson never came home. Now, Sherlock cannot help you. In fact, if he so much as tries, the mechanisms will start, tightening every wire around your body. Besides, he has more… pressing matters…"_

Sherlock gulped, paused the tape, and secured it in Mrs Hudson's frail hand. "I have to go," he told her, tears dripping to the floor, and then he turned and pushed open the next door.

"Good luck, son," the old woman whispered, but he was already gone.

1 minute, 11 seconds.

"_It's all fine."_

"_Because you're an idiot."_

"_Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor Watson."_

"_I've just got one."_

"_John, are you alright?"_

"_Everything I've told you is a lie."_

"_Goodbye, John."_

He could hear him now, his footsteps, racing towards him, twisting through the passages, cursing as glass split his skin. He could hear the ticking, the beeping, the time slipping away. He clutched the key, glanced at the blood on his hands, looked up at the broken ceiling, floorboards cracked and split. Dust rained down into his eyes.

All the memories, all the cases, all the hours spent together led to here. One door between them, and sticks of explosives wired to detonate in 50 seconds. He let the tears come, let them flood down his cheeks, and pressed his hand against the cool metal of the door. "Sherlock…" he whispered. "I'm here…"

Darkness was closing in around him now. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was blood loss. His arm was completely numb now, soaked with blood, but he had the key. With a slight laugh he slipped over, and felt splinters nip at his cheek as he lay there, waiting for the last few seconds to pass.

"John!" he cried, reaching the door. "John, can you hear me?"

He grasped at the handle, ice cold, and then he froze. What if the door was wired? What if he died before he could save John? He cursed, slammed a fist into the door, not caring as his knuckles ached and bruised. "There must be a clue, there must be something…"

He turned frantically until he read it.

"TIME TO LISTEN TO HIM."

"John!" he called again, pounding on the door until he heard a soft groan. He'd recognise it anywhere. "JOHN! Talk to me, tell me what you see!"

"Sh-Sherlock…" John murmured. "Bombs… Don't open the door…"

His breathing hitched. "How do I get you out, John?"  
His dry laugh sent chills through the detective. "You don't… You use this key to unlock the collar… and you get out of here…"

The key slipped under the door, and Sherlock grabbed it, but didn't free himself. It was bloody. "What did you have to do to get this?" he pleaded.

"Free yourself, dammit!" John cursed, with every last ounce of strength he had. "Get… out…"

"Not without you."

"Listen to me, Sherlock, please, I want you to leave."

Sherlock shut his eyes, knowing what he had to do. There was no winning this game. John would die here, and it was all his fault for dragging him into the Jigsaw case.

With a click the key turned in the lock, and the collar loosened and he slipped it off.

20 seconds.

"I love you, John, I always have," he told him, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

"I loved you too," John replied.

And Sherlock turned, and ran. Ran out of there, down corridors, across glass, stumbling down steps, forcing doors until he pushed and he was outside, standing in the cold of night, screaming and praying, collapsing onto the weeds and thorns, and he lay there, waiting for his life to explode into a million pieces.

John shut his eyes, relieved it was all finally over, and that Sherlock had made it. He drew a shaky breath, whispered sweet nothings to himself – his hopes, regrets, loves – and then in one last second…

Sherlock looked around through misty eyes. Counted to five. 10. No bang. Nothing. He dragged himself up, glancing at the abandoned house in confusion. And he just stood there, breathing, trembling, bleeding.

And then John staggered out of the door. "What did I tell you?" he joked, and collapsed into Sherlock's arms. "It's about time… you listened to me…"

"_Can you save them through suffering, unlike you did for your husband? I suppose listening to him… was like having razor wire raked across your skin. Will they live or die, Mrs Hudson? Make your choice."_

"They're… good sons…" she hissed, crying and bleeding and almost unconscious. "They… deserve to live…"

She looked up through weak eyes, feeling every cut dug inside of her, every blade still stuck in her skin, and she stared into the camera.

"If I die for them…" she whispered, although more to herself than whoever was watching. "At least… it's for a purpose…"

She let her head drop, breathing hitched on the wires within her, and the scratch ran along her neck. The blood spilt over the wire, only bleeding was the relief. She almost smiled. Her heart beat frantically, not realising that it was the very thing killing her. She was drained. Pale. Dying. And still her hand twitched over the chord she had broken – to disarm the bombs, to prevent them dying.

The tension had snapped. The wires had tightened, thankfully it had been quick, but bleeding out wasn't. She was old. Her heart wasn't strong enough to kill her, blood trickling from all of her wounds in slow, agonising droplets.

"Sh-Sherlock…" she murmured, although she didn't know who to, or why. Tears streamed down her cheeks, over the strips of metal cutting through her, deeper and deeper as she was forced to lean on them in her weakness.

"Mrs Hudson!"

But she couldn't open her eyes to see him.

"Oh shit, oh fuck…"

"You're a doctor, do something!"

"I'd need to be a genius to save her, you do something!"

"Get her down, get her down now!"

"Sherlock… It's too-"

"Don't say that, John, you never say that. We must be able to do something."

The doctor looked up at his friend with dull eyes, flooded with tears that just wouldn't fall. But Sherlock was resolute. Together, they started to cut through the wire, freeing her slowly, but John didn't dare say that it was all futile. They slipped in blood, fumbled over the razor wire until their fingers and hands bled, but they couldn't give up, not on Mrs Hudson, not now…

A few hours later, the police arrived. Sirens whirring. Horns honking. Suited up and covered up, gloved and equipped with everything they might need. Lestrade sat on the steps outside, head in hands, as paramedics helped out Sherlock, and John, and Mrs Hudson.

"The cuts are too deep, she'll never-"

"You have to try!"

John watched Sherlock's rage in sympathy, and sorrow. Seeing Sherlock so emotional… it was something he'd never expected, but he'd never wanted it like this. His hope, his passion, his care… it would all go to waste this time.

For once, Anderson and Donavon didn't mock either of them.

Climbing into the back of the ambulance, John grasped Sherlock's hand, tighter than he even knew he could. Mrs Hudson lay on the gurney. No time to plug in the heart monitors. Doctor Watson reached to check her pulse, but Sherlock stopped him. "Not now, Doctor. They can handle it."

And he threw the bright orange blanket over their shoulders, pulling him close, hugging him, awkwardly of course, but John found himself leaning on him, literally crying on his shoulder.

The hospital was quiet until they arrived.

It was deathly quiet when they left.

The apartment wasn't home as it had been. They found themselves not wanting to be apart, not for a minute, not for a second. Clutching one another's hands. Going everywhere together, even to the bathroom. At night they would tremble, and if they did sleep they would wake up from nightmares. Bombs all around them. Doors. Weapons. In the morning they wouldn't leave 221B. Nor the next day. Or the one after that.

Until the phone call came in.

John picked it up, Sherlock still clinging to his hand and he to Sherlock's, and answered quietly, "Hello?"

"John, it's me, Lestrade. You two need to get down to the hospital."

"More check-ups?" he groaned. "I thought they agreed that a _doctor _can look after himself, and his partner."

The word hung on the line for a long time, and then, "Trust me, John, you both need to see this."

"I don't think we're ready for another corpse to investigate," John hissed dryly.

"Then you're in luck, 'cause it's not a corpse. Just get down here, okay?"

The phone cut off, and John listened to that dead beep for a second, before shuddering. It sounded just like the ringing of bombs in his ears from Afghanistan. Normally the memory wouldn't have caused so much as maybe a sigh. Now it frightened him half to death.

"They want us at the hospital," John relayed, kissing Sherlock's forehead lightly. They had come to understand how being close made them feel safer, and neither of them minded being called a couple any more. They were. They honestly would die without each other, and were literally inseparable.

They walked hand-in-hand, ignoring the odd glances, all the way from Baker Street to St Bart's. When Lestrade met them at the door he couldn't help smiling a little. "Wait till you hear the good news."

"_You will have to endure severe pain, but it won't necessarily kill you. Can you trust the detective and his doctor to come back for you?"_

"Sherlock…" she whispered, her head rolling a little and she groaned against her restraints. A few nurses hurried in to check on here, talking to one another in hushed tones about the Jigsaw killer, and all that the dear old lady had survived through. "John… Help…"

"We're here, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock told her, putting his hand delicately over hers. It was bound in gauze but even still the blood stains managed to seep through. John put his hand on top of Sherlock's.

"We're both here," he added quietly.

She couldn't open her eyes for the bandages, but she knew it was them. Knew their voices. Knew their touch. Knew their scents, their auras, their footsteps… And she started to cry.

"You're alive?" she murmured, gripping their hands tighter.

"We could ask the same of you," John said in disbelief. "How did you survive? The cuts were so deep, I was sure you'd…"

He trailed off.

She sighed softly, almost as though to laugh. "Only the good die young," she joked, and the others smiled as well.

By the end of the week most of the bandages were removed, revealing the even stitches that would soon fade away, leaving just the memories.

A month later, things got better. All home and healing, they were able to talk about the Games, and what they had each been through. And the more they talked, the more they realised how much they had learnt. To trust. To protect. To believe. And most importantly, how much they meant to each other – not just as friends, but as a family.

"You know, you saved my life," John whispered to Sherlock one night, holding him close.

"And you saved mine," Sherlock replied quietly.

John leant on his arm, facing Sherlock. "You really meant that, didn't you? That you've always…"

Sherlock smiled. "Loved you? I thought you already knew that."

And with that John leaned closer, letting his lips trace Sherlock's, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck. He pulled himself on top of his partner – no, his _lover_ and gently held his waist, dropping closer, pushing against Sherlock's lips until the consulting detective had no room to argue, and relaxed into the kiss. John's tongue teased at Sherlock's, leaving both men smirking softly as they tugged at one another's belts, tossing them aside, fingertips tracing each other, almost as if in study.

"Why did it take," John managed between frantic kisses, "Jigsaw to make you say it..?"

Sherlock laughed and gasped at the same time as John grabbed his hips tightly. "I guess… I was – ahhh – scared…" he breathed. "And… and then I was scared… I would lose you…"

John pressed his lips to Sherlock's again, this time just to kiss him, to feel close to him, to be with him.

When they parted, Sherlock smiled. "I guess there are benefits to Jigsaw's work." He leaned forward, kissing John's cheek, before adding, "You."


End file.
